


Mouthy, Tiny, and Pig-Headed

by phoenixflight



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Implied Relationship, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, World War II, hidden historical homosexuality, outsider pov, phillips is a big teddy bear really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 15:06:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15560430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/phoenixflight
Summary: If Colonel Phillips had been the kind of man to take the Lord’s name in vain, he would have sworn to God that Private Steve Rogers had been put on this green earth specially to be a thorn in his side.In which Colonel Phillips has a headache and heartburn, and their names are Steve Rogers and Steve Rogers'boyfriendsergeant.





	Mouthy, Tiny, and Pig-Headed

If Colonel Phillips had been the kind of man to take the Lord’s name in vain, he would have sworn to God that Private Steve Rogers had been put on this green earth specially to be a thorn in his side. A tiny, five foot-two thorn.

At first, Rogers was just the vehicle of his annoyance at Dr. Erskine for picking this skinny streak of piss with more balls than brains, and less muscle than either. The kid wasn’t much to look at, but he had a set to his jaw that Phillips recognized. He’d seen a lot of recruits, and that particular brand of stubbornness didn’t make for a good soldier. He shot Dr. Erskine a grimace. The doctor just smiled.

When it became clear that the tiny kid was determined to kill himself during basic through over exertion, Phillips became irritated at Rogers for making him contemplate having to write another condolence letter before they’d even shipped these boys off to war.

When Rogers stepped out of Stark’s machine, all gleaming, sweaty six feet of him, Colonel Phillips momentarily entertained the fantasy that he was done being annoyed at Steve Rogers.

That feeling didn’t last long with Dr. Erskine (who, he would never have admitted, had been a friend) dead on the floor and Senator Brant looking at their only supersoldier with dollar signs in his eyes. Wasn’t it just like a _politician_ to take a million dollars worth of army research and turn it into a propaganda tool? None of that was Rogers’ fault _per se_ , but Phillips had worked himself into a broad, generalized kind of rage, and Rogers was certainly in the target zone. The kid had the world’s most valuable biotechnology running through his veins, and he was going to join the circus as a chorus girl.

No one was particularly happy when the Star Spangled Circus showed up overseas, not the soldiers, apparently not the chorus girls, certainly not Phillips. He’d spent the morning signing condolences until his hand cramped when Captain Tights came storming in trying to tell him how to do his job.

Colonel Phillips rubbed his forehead. Rain pattered down on the canvas overhead. There was a persistent throbbing behind his right eye and two scalding cups of shitty coffee had just made it worse. “They’re 30 miles behind the enemy line. We’d lose more men than we’d save but I don’t expect you to understand that because you’re a chorus girl.”

Rogers did the thing with his jaw, looking exactly like the stubborn kid he’d been in basic despite having 175lbs and 10 inches on his past self. “I understand you perfectly sir,” he bit out. That look was giving Phillips heartburn.

After Rogers left he could feel Agent Carter behind him about to say something uppity like always. She was a good spy, excellent code breaker, terrible subordinate. “If you’ve got something to say,” he grunted, not looking at her, “Now is the perfect time to keep it to yourself.”

At least she could follow a direct order. He heard her footsteps in the mud when she walked away. Phillips bent his head over the papers spread on the table and tried to tell himself that there was nothing Rogers could do, no more than there was anything _he_ could do to save those boys. Didn’t they think he _would_ if he could? He was a career soldier, one of the lucky ones who made it out of the trenches in the Great War. Swallowing back the bitter bile of thoughts like “if only I could...” was second nature.

“Colonel?”

Phillips frowned. Majors Wesley and Olson were looking at him expectantly. It wasn’t like him to go drifting in his head. Damn Rogers anyway, with those clear, bright eyes of a boy who’d never been to war. “The report from HQ, Colonel?” Wesley pointed at the clipboard his aide was holding out.

“You know the drill, Major,” he said gruffly. “I need to look into something.” The men saluted.

Phillips sat down at the wobbly camp desk, and picked up the list of dead and missing at Azzano. The cheap paper was flimsy and slick in his fingers. Four hundred odd names, neatly typewritten along with the names and addresses of their next of kin, only filled up seven pages. The B’s were on the first page, and between Baldwin, Raymond W and Baron, William K was -

BARNES JAMES B – 32557038 SGT MIA

And under it, where other soldiers had listed parents, siblings, or wives as next of kin, was COUSIN, ROGERS S G, and an address in Brooklyn.

Phillips pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and swore very quietly and very emphatically. Cousin. That only ever meant one thing. Carter was barking up the wrong tree, apparently. He spared an unkind thought for Dr. Erskine who had managed to find not only the mouthiest, tiniest, most pig-headed lab rat in Uncle Sam’s army, but the kid was a fairy as well.

It was none of his goddamn business of course, as long as Rogers didn’t do anything stupid. All things considered, that seemed like too much to hope for. Rubbing his temples, Phillips imagined the report he would have to make to Rogers’ handlers at the State Department. ROGERS AWOL AFTER BOYFRIEND MIA STOP SEND BOURBON STOP

There was a splash of muddy footsteps, and an aide ducked under the canvas of the tent, breathing hard. He saluted, rain dripping from his cap. “Sir!”

“What is it, Corporal?”

“Captain America is missing sir. And so is Stark’s plane.”

Colonel Phillips let out a breath very slowly, feeling the throbbing in his head increase. Well, at least he had the telegram already composed.

 

Phillips didn’t have any actual proof that Agent Carter had been involved. “The look in her eye” probably wasn’t enough evidence to court-martial her. And Stark wasn’t technically military although there might be a case to be made for “willful neglect of Army property.”

Officially, Captain America going missing wasn’t his problem. The man was on some sort of strange loan from the SSR to the Office of War Information, via the Army. He ought to report it, and wash his hands of the whole mess. He did compose a more circumspect telegram, but instead of handing it to his aide with the regular batch, he put it aside. It was simply a formality, he told himself. The army didn’t notify other agencies of every enlisted man gone AWOL. And whatever else he was, Rogers was currently a private in the US Army.

Three days later a commotion on the edge of camp drew Phillips out of the command tent, and there was Steve fucking Rogers marching at the head of a column of muddy, battered men.

Well, goddamn.

Arms crossed, Phillips watched Rogers approach and salute. “I present myself for disciplinary action, sir.”

The man at Rogers' shoulder hung back, but not as far as regulation dictated and Phillips eyed him up and down. He was indistinguishable from the other rescued soldiers - dark haired and pale, with a bruise on one cheek and stubble on his chin - except there was an uncannily familiar set to his jaw. His eyes moved like a sniper’s, sharp and flickering, but they kept coming back to Rogers.

Phillips felt his heartburn coming back.

Rogers was still at attention, awaiting discipline. Phillips fantasized briefly about slapping him with a court martial, but decided he would settle instead for the satisfaction of burning the fat folder of condolence letters on his desk.

“That won’t be necessary.”

 

Of all the things the serum had changed in Rogers, from his muscle mass and metabolism to his apparently photographic memory for Nazi maps, his suicidal stubbornness was not one of them.

Now the newly promoted Captain Rogers was standing in front of him, telling his superior officer that the new special task force would include a Negro and a Jap, along with some miscellaneous Allied soldiers.

Phillips could have told you from the moment he laid eyes on Rogers that this kid given an inch would take a mile – and he’d already been thirty miles, into enemy territory and back. So now here they were.

Agent Carter was shuffling papers by the desk pretending not to listen. He made a mental note to assign her something as tedious as possible. Standing at attention just outside the tent, visible through the open flap, was Rogers’ shadow, Barnes.

“Rogers, you realize this is an army unit, not a tea party,” Phillips growled. “You don’t write the invitations, you show up and say yes sir.”

“With all due respect, sir...”

“Captain, I put those stripes on your arm and I can take them off.” He saw Rogers shoulders tense and his mouth curl as he fought to bite back whatever stupid thing was on his tongue. “Strike teams are put together by the officer most qualified to assemble men. Understood?”

“Yes sir,” Rogers bit out. It sounded like it hurt.

“Good.” Phillips looked down at the papers in front of him and wished for an Alka-Seltzer. “You’ll have whatever men you want, and I’ll get it past the politicals. Dismissed.”

“Sir?”

“Something wrong with your hearing, Rogers?” He was sure Carter was laughing at him. “Agent, you too. Whatever you’re doing, do it elsewhere.”

“Thank you sir!” Rogers saluted and turned to go, Carter along side him.

“Send Sergeant Barnes in,” Phillips added. Rogers paused, looking ready to protest, and Phillips waved a hand. “Just an administrative question. Scram, Rogers.”

Outside the tent, Rogers and Barnes exchanged words, and then Barnes ducked inside, coming to attention in front of his desk. Phillips looked up. Shaved and in a clean uniform, the man looked like a credit to the Army, if a little underfed and hollow eyed. Who wasn’t, these days?

Phillips pulled a thin file out from a stack. “Sergeant Barnes.”

“Sir.”

“I wanted to update your next of kin in the army records. Since the person we have listed for you is now serving active duty along side you.”

He looked up in time to watch Barnes go white, but to the man’s credit his voice was steady.

“Sir?”

“Is there anyone else back home?”

There was a short silence, and then Barnes said, “My mother. Winifred Barnes.”

Phillips copied down the address he recited and closed the folder. “It’s unusual to list a cousin as next of kin when your mother is alive.”

Barnes’ eyes were fixed on the canvas above Phillips’ head, cheeks pale. He said nothing. There was a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Phillips sighed and tossed his pen down on top of the folder. He was so tired his eyes ached. He ought to have told Carter to bring him coffee. “Look after Rogers for me.”

“Sir?” Barnes’ gaze snapped to him.

“He’s valuable government property. Someone’s got to look out for America’s investment because it’s sure as hell not gonna be him. He’s in your hands, Sergeant.”

A tiny twitch moved the corner of Barnes’ mouth. “Yessir.”

“Good.” Looking down at his desk, Phillips picked up the map of HYRDA bases Rogers had drawn, the next campaign unfolding in his mind. “Dismissed.”

**Author's Note:**

> I took a little artistic license - the US Army during WW2 did not list next of kin in records of the dead and missing, although the Navy did. The two other names mentioned on the list are the names of real soldiers KIA during the war lifted straight from the records. 
> 
> If you like what you see, follow me on tumblr at my main blog [here](http://stillwaterseas.tumblr.com/) or my fandom blog [here](https://brklynboys-headcanons.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this- tell me what you think! Comments are love.


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